


Yielding to Temptation

by fayzalmoonbeam



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayzalmoonbeam/pseuds/fayzalmoonbeam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted to Top Gear Slash, but now I'm feeling the need to share it again :)</p><p>Jeremy finds himself seduced.<br/>Inspired by evilmaniclaugh’s desire for louche!James, and this picture:</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yielding to Temptation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evilmaniclaugh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/gifts).



“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” James asks. He is standing by the sofa where Jeremy is seated, seeming to tower above Jeremy as he pauses to hear the response. His tone, to Jeremy, seems sardonic, laced with a kind of lax morality that is doing disreputable, appalling things to Jeremy’s mind and body. Despite the professed apology, James clearly couldn’t give a toss what Jeremy has said: he just wants Jeremy to repeat it because he knows he will; that he can’t not.

As Jeremy watches, James crosses the living room floor to top up their whisky glasses from the bottle on the sideboard. In the dying firelight Jeremy can see the perfect cut of those Saville Row trousers on the kind of endless legs that would make any tailor shiver with excitement. He could look at James’ back view forever and never get bored. He sees James reach for the whisky bottle, sees those long, tapered fingers and those elegant, spare wrists, the forearms that are partially covered with sleeves, rolled to just below the elbow, of the shirt that cost almost as much as the suit. He can’t see James topping up both glasses but he knows the action, has seen it a thousand times before.

“I said, how the hell did they let you walk out of the studio with that suit on without lynching you?” Jeremy repeats, eventually, hearing the hoarseness in his own voice and hating James as much as he loves him for provoking that kind of reaction.

James turns away from the sideboard and Jeremy sees the amused glint in his blue eyes. He observes the way the white shirt clings to that generously proportioned chest while it disguises the evidence of the slight overindulgences, as all good tailoring should. He loves the fact that the shirt is half tucked in and half out of those beautifully fitted, bespoke trousers and that the tie he knew James was wearing until he got home is now thrown carelessly down on the sofa where he himself is sitting. He notes with pleasure the black socked feet, knowing that James has to be truly relaxed before he’ll ever take his shoes off, even in his own house, and the shoes themselves, tucked away behind the sofa.

“Who said they let me?” James murmurs, voice heavy with suggestion as he passes Jeremy his whisky glass.

Jeremy can hear the seduction in that voice, the gentle rasp of a throat that has had too many cigarettes and whiskies, the steady, measured breathing of a man who is completely aware of the effect he’s having. Breathing that is in stark contrast to his own, increasingly shortening breaths. He can hear the rustle of expensively woven wool as James sits back down on the settee, the gentle crunching crinkle of white cotton as James puts down his glass and rolls up a sleeve that has come unrolled, back to just below the elbow.

“What do you mean?” Jeremy asks, and he curses the shake in his usually very controlled voice. He sips his whisky, tasting the burn as it slides down his throat, the herbal heat that stings and then warms, almost taking away the flavour of that last cigarette. Seeing the hollow in James’ own throat, he anticipates the taste of James’ skin, a mixture of salt and aftershave.

“It wasn’t really that difficult,” James replies. “After all, who else was going to wear it?”

As James shifts on the sofa, Jeremy catches a waft of aftershave that has very nearly worn off. The scents of cigarette smoke, whisky and James mingle, and make his head spin. He can smell arousal, his own, and the faint, heady scent of a man wearing clothes that are slightly too warm for the room. He suppresses the urge to reach out and unbutton that white shirt because he knows his hands are trembling.

“Even so,” Jeremy struggles to articulate, “that’s a bespoke suit you’re talking about. Surely the Radio Times won’t run to that as a freebie.” He looks down into his glass, unable to meet James’ indecent, appraising, faintly amused gaze, unable to see that tangled lock of hair that has fallen indolently over James’ left eye before those long fingers sweep it away.

Jeremy feels the cool glass under the tips of his fingers, remembers the warm brush of James’ own hands when he passed it over. He feels James’ breath close to his face and before he knows it, he feels the even warmer sensation of James’ lips brushing his own in a lazy, leisurely, laconic kiss that is as lacking in morals as the connotations of the whisky. He feels the rough, unkempt texture of James’ hair as he runs his free hand through it, the firm heaviness of James’ muscular wool clad thigh against his as James pulls him in closer, the touch of James’ hand as James takes back the glass and places it on the coffee table in front of the settee, all without breaking the rhythm of the kiss. There’s something decidedly decadent, assumed about the way James does that; as if he’s done this a thousand million times before, made the same move.

With a rhythm all of their own, Jeremy’s hands fumble with the buttons on James’ white shirt until he feels warm flesh beneath his fingertips. _Thank God for decent tailoring,_ he thinks as he separates button from eyelet with ease. He can feel James’s right hand creeping up his inner thigh, and the sensation is utterly, exquisitely, forbiddenly degenerate. Long fingers exert expert pressure where it is most needed, and Jeremy feels the breath catch in his throat.

 _Louche._ Jeremy thinks irrationally through the haze of sensations.

Eventually they break apart. James speaks again; voice slow, deliberate, suggestive, sardonic look back in place. “Who says I didn’t just make them an offer for the suit, because I knew what it would do to you to see me in it?”


End file.
